The Pieces of my Dreams
by Mari Luyken
Summary: P/T: B'Elanna has made a decision - one that has far reaching implications.


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Pieces of my Dreams 

[Companion piece to "Noëlle"]

Marié Luyken  
Rating: PG  
Code: P/T, J/P (implied)  
  
**NOTE**: This story is the companion piece to my Christmas story, "Noëlle" and is the second story in the Christmas Trilogy. Those who have read "Noëlle" will know that it's told from mainly Janeway's POV. I've attempted here to give B'Elanna's POV. Some readers felt somewhat sorry for B'Elanna, and hoped to see something explaining her decision. I hope that this tale will have a glimmer of hope. Also, it would be useful to read "Noëlle" first before getting into the new story. 

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NOTE: About B'Elanna's back story. What we know of her father is told mainly by her in the episode "Faces". While the writers at Paramount have never really kept to much continuity, I have used the events as told by B'Elanna in "Faces" and also some minor references from the novelisation of "Day of Honor". 

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Warning: Mushy! 

DISCLAIMER: Now, if I could climb that mountain... My story is on the other side of it. 

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SUMMARY: B'Elanna has made a decision - one that will have far reaching implications. 

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PIECES OF MY DREAMS

B'Elanna Torres looked one last time around the room. It felt empty. It looked empty save for a few items here and there that were Tom's. A framed picture of her stood on the small bedstand on his side. She knew if she walked round to that side she'd see his old slippers peeping from under the bed, or see his earth-toned terry robe hanging behind the bathroom door. She gave a sigh. She half expected Tom to peep through the bathroom door with dripping wet hair and a smile that dared her to get mad at him for wetting the floor; she could almost hear him ask her something as mundane as: "B'Elanna, do you think I need a shave?"

The bed was neatly made up; the round table on her side of the bed was covered with a floor length table-cloth that Tom's mother had given her. It gave the room an austere, clinical appearance. 

__

It's as if no one has lived here. It never really did have a lived in atmosphere... we ate, we made love, we slept, woke up in the morning...

They had been on too many missions on their respective vessels in the last four and a half years to have turned their apartment into a home. What there was, she had collected over the years and... B'Elanna sighed again. This was simply a home base, nothing more. Nothing that could give it any warmth - no traditions, no family gatherings, no waiting with baited breath for a loved one to return home, no children...only an endless yearning.

She looked at the window with its view of distant stars that she could only vaguely discern through the narrow slats of the blinds. How many times had she stood there looking, wondering, dreaming, wishing? How many times had she stood there and looked at the moon and thought that the thin clouds that blemished its smooth golden surface looked liked blood? 

B'Elanna gave a shudder at that thought. 

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It's over now... it's over and my heart will stop bleeding... 

She turned away abruptly and walked out of the spacious bedroom. 

In the lounge, the man and woman who stood there, watched as she approached them. They had been waiting patiently and the moment she appeared in the door of her bedroom, the man's shoulders squared imperceptibly. It was the only sign of any reaction that he appeared pleased that she had finally emerged from her room. The woman took one step forward, then stopped in her tracks. Her hand that had gone out to touch the younger woman's arm in what she perceived would be a touch of comfort, relaxed again. B'Elanna looked resolute. It was in her bearing. Even the ridges on her forehead did not appear so angry and red as they had been when last B'Elanna had been to see her. Only her eyes... There was some flicker of emotion...

The man observed B'Elanna. There were no tears in her eyes and her lips were soft as if she remembered some forgotten happy moment that caused her to reflect with joy on it. For a moment her eyes became warm, then as quickly the emptiness settled there again. However, concluded the man, there was a certainty in her step, a calmness in her demeanor that proved to him B'Elanna Torres had warred through the decisions she had had to make. It told him that her road to healing had begun.

He looked at his wife who nodded as she reached to touch B'Elanna's hand. He sensed how her own peace, her calm influenced the younger woman and he saw how some of the tension left B'Elanna. It was in the way her breathing eased, and the stiffness of her bearing relaxed.

There were no tears.

B'Elanna Torres offered them a gentle, hovering smile. When she spoke, her voice did not waver as he knew it happened when people who were too distraught and on the point of weeping, spoke. He would have told her that he could understand if she did, for was this day not a day, this time not a time of goodwill and peace in the hearts and minds of all those who sought to celebrate the birth of a deity? On such a day, the eve of great joy, B'Elanna Torres' eyes were haunted, but her smile was one of victory. 

"I am ready, Tuvok, T'Pel..." she addressed them calmly. 

They did not ask her whether she was certain of the path was she was taking; they did not ask her to reconsider her chosen path; they did not seek to tell her that her way was folly for they did not consider it folly. 

"Come," came T'Pel's soft voice.

"He will know?" Tuvok asked B'Elanna.

B'Elanna gave a wordless nod, then followed them as they turned to leave the house. She did not look back and not once her step faltered as they walked towards the small shuttlecraft. 

Only when she entered the shuttle and the hatch lowered, did she look back at the house that had been her home for almost five years. 

When T'Pel turned to look at B'Elanna Torres, she saw one single tear roll down the engineer's cheek. 

**

Tom Paris knew the moment he entered the house that something was wrong. It was quiet. It was always quiet, but this quiet was unsettling. The armload of gifts he carried were quickly dispatched to the couch. He walked through the lounge, looked around him in some detached manner, and only when he stood at the entrance to the bedroom did he suddenly turn as if he remembered something. 

He looked at the lounge wall.

B'Elanna's bat-leth with the Klingon family crest engraved on the center hand-hold was gone from its brackets. Only the faint outline - it looked liked a ghost bat-leth was still hanging there - was discernable.

"B'Elanna?"

His heartbeat quickened as he rushed into the room. 

"B'Elanna, I've brought you something for Christmas," he started as if in denial of what he noticed against the lounge wall. The bedroom looked strangely bare. 

A cold hand gripped his heart and squeezed painfully. There was a throbbing in his ears which overpowered a buzzing sensation that started the moment he noticed the emptiness of the room. 

Not entirely empty as he noted the framed picture of his wife on his bedside table. 

Mostly, he noted his own things…

His things… 

A book lying on the dresser, the set of hoverboards that stood on the floor next to the dresser, a sand painting Chakotay had given him two years ago…

The hand around his heart squeezed harder. The first few moments he had been frozen to the spot, then he rushed to the dresser and opened the drawers. 

"Come on, B'Elanna, no funny tricks this time," he called out as he frantically opened and closed empty drawers.

Running his hand through his hair Tom stood indecisive for a moment. He had rushed to be here. He wanted to spend the evening with her and then, God help him, see if he could get away for a few hours to take Noëlle's gifts to her. B'Elanna would understand that. She always has, although he knew that it pained her. He felt like a heel, remembering how her face always clouded, but she'd look him straight in the eye and tell him he'd be late if he didn't go soon.

B'Elanna... 

He looked at the beautiful round table with the embroidered table-cloth his mother had given her. B'Elanna had always taken such pride in it. He stepped closer and noticed for the first time that his picture was gone from it and that something else was lying there. Why hadn't he seen it as he came into the room?

Tom looked at the PADD lying on the table, but his eyes were drawn painfully to the gold wedding band lying next to it. Very slowly his hand reached for it and when he held it up, looked at the inscription on the inside: For B'Elanna…

He gave a choked sob.

He slumped down on the bed and sat for several minutes, hands covering his face. When he looked up again, his eyes were reddened. Still holding the ring in his hand he picked up the PADD and started reading.

**

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Dear Tom

If you're reading this message, then you'll be holding my wedding band also in your hand. I've worn it for almost five years and now, finally, I'm giving it back to you. If truth be told there was never, ever a day that I looked at my wedding band and I didn't think of the heartache that accompanied my wearing it, or that I didn't imagine or dream that my life be happier than it was. 

I am leaving you, Tom. I guess by now you will have noticed that my personal effects are no longer there. In fact, save for a picture of me on your bedstand, all things that would be reminders or signs that I lived with you for more than four years are gone. It sounds very melodramatic, doesn't it? Something you would not imagine B'Elanna Torres would do, but believe me, I have given it a lot of thought. 

I want you to know that I feel no regret at the decision I made. It is Christmas eve, a time and occasion that has never really held much of a significance for me. Not because of my Klingon heritage and the fact that Christmas and its celebrations of trees and stars and angels are alien to our understanding and culture and beliefs. It is more - much more - the fact that as a half-human and child growing up I have never experienced the goodwill of this season. What I have learnt and appreciated about Christmas I learned from you and your family - on those occasions we had been together. 

At this moment everything has already been set in motion for an official separation. It won't take very long. I do so hate the term divorce and 'separation' sounds at least a little more euphemistic for ending a marriage that had come to mean the world to me. I could never cut myself off emotionally from you, Tom, and while I reiterate that I have no regrets, I will always think of you, and you will always be indelibly marked on my heart as the man I loved intensely for so long. 

I loved you. I love you still. 

You might ask: "Why are you doing this, B'Elanna?"

I might answer: "It is a step that has become, not as many people would state in a clichéd sense, the right thing to do considering our particular circumstances, but a necessity."

That is, if I'm to have the peace that I crave. 

It was necessary for me to do this. It is not a sacrifice I'm making, dear Tom, nor a grand gesture to appear the martyr in a drama depicting the lives, fortunes and happiness of four people. As I said, it was necessary for me to do this. Perhaps later in this message you will be a little more clear as to what I'm trying to say here.

I was holding on to my dreams too long, Tom. In the beginning and for a long time I believed that if I held on long enough or hard enough, the miracles I had been praying for would happen for me. 

They didn't. 

There are no miracles for me today. Only the hard realization that sometimes dreams have a way of being the mist that evaporate as soon as the sun came up, or they are things people cling to and set themselves up for pain.

There is little point now to analyze all the circumstances of our marriage. You know the truth. You made a baby with another woman, yet you married me. To pretend that those dimensions in your life never existed, would be to live in a fool's paradise. I have been too much aware of how what happened in the past impacted on our marriage. You are a good man, Tom, and I will always laud that you placed honor and duty before your own personal happiness. 

You know why I am leaving you. We spoke very little of it ourselves over the last four years. It has always been a subject that has pained both of us. 

What happened that time, Tom, I don't hold against you. It happened. You have always been attracted to Kathryn Janeway. How serious and intense and deep the attraction between you even I underestimated. When you succumbed to it, it wasn't because you thought you'd sow a wild oat or two before you and I married. It was because you loved Kathryn Janeway in a way you could never love me. It was because you could no more deny your feelings for her than I could try and wipe away all knowledge of it. That has been the single most difficult thing for me to do since that fateful day. It was the hardest thing I've had to accept. 

Your union was crowned, it was blessed with the most beautiful little girl any father would be proud of.

And, it broke my heart into a million pieces.

You, Tom Paris, a father. Father of a golden haired, blue-eyed little girl. Yes, I know what Noëlle looks like, Tom. I sneaked, if you must know, and watched some vid-images of your daughter with her mother. A child who seemed to laugh directly at the imager. There was laughter in her eyes and she ran towards you with her arms outstretched. Did you catch her when she stumbled? 

I guess so.

Looking at those images…

I did not want to have children with you, you know. I couldn't see you divide your time, your loyalties, even. Although I swear by Kahless, the way you cared about me and loved me you would have stayed by my side forever. You bound yourself to an oath, a promise to be faithful to me. No, I didn't want children. I kept thinking, always, of a beautiful little girl who was yours, but she wasn't mine.

You love Kathryn Janeway.

Of your own, you would never have asked me to let you go. And I? I loved you so much that I was willing, yes, willing to take you and live with you, make love to you and hear you call my name. I guess I had little pride then, knowing that you felt the way you did. Why did I do it? I suppose there was always the hope, the dream that one day you might learn to love me in the way that I needed to be loved. That I desired to be loved. Perhaps you do. But at this point, your heart is with another.

I have known that, and yet, you never asked me to release you from your promise, from an oath to which you felt honor bound. So I kept quiet, and once, when you told me that you would have liked to have Noëlle stay with us for a few days, I became… Well, let's just say I didn't react very well to your suggestion. 

Perhaps it reminded me of too many things: your unfailing loyalty to me when you cared for someone else; it reminded me that you transgressed, for want of a better word, while you were engaged to me; it reminded me that I failed. 

I know. You'll tell me that isn't so, and at the back of my mind I know it isn't so, but in those moments when you mentioned Noëlle's name, I saw all the things that were wrong with us. I saw my own shortcomings and I actually believed I could not be good enough for you. 

Forgive me. 

You tried so hard, Tom. You tried to be my husband, a good, loving husband, and you wanted to be a little girl's father. Most of the time I know, you stole away from here just to spend a few hours with them. Mostly, you would break records trying to reach them in time before I suppose, Noëlle had gone to bed. Most of the time you were so tired when you got home…

I would never have denied you, you know, but please try to understand that I sometimes found it so difficult, so difficult, Tom, to forget that your heart wasn't mine to have and to hold forever, or that a little girl who looked like you missed you really badly.

You never pushed me, always caring of my own feelings, never wanting to hurt me. Never. 

It is over now. We had our moments, Tom. I shall always remember them. There were times when we made love that you were so completely mine that my heart soared once again with mad hope, a desperate dream that kept the dying embers of our union alive.

Yes, there were those times, and I will treasure them. I will remember my mark on your cheek when we've made love. I will remember how we talked into the early hours of the morning. I shall remember mostly, how we were friends. 

I never told you much about my father, did I? Once before - a long time ago, really - I spoke of him. It was down in those Vidiian caves, remember? I had been so afraid then, more afraid than I have ever been in my life. But my fear left me because you were there to absorb some of it. That was when I knew that my life would always be entwined with yours. It took me a long time to accept me for myself; it took you to make me realize that I could still have dreams. 

You made me whole then, Tom. 

But, I digress. 

My father left when I was five years old. 

On Christmas Day. 

Seems odd, doesn't it? I could never understand why he left, even to this day. So, I imagined all sorts of problems and reasons - some real, others just without substance - as to why he deserted a little girl of five years old who cried for her daddy for months afterwards. 

I was confused; I didn't understand - what child of five years old could ever understand? - the politics that govern marriages and relationships. Therefore I assumed that he'd be gone for a little while and soon he'd be back again. 

I missed him because I loved him so much. I loved him without condition, Tom. I loved him wholeheartedly because he was my father, first and foremost. I loved him because he called me his little Bee. I loved him because he was the gentlest and kindest man who breathed, I swear. He read to me stories. I never remembered much of those stories, Tom, because it was his voice that always mesmerized me. It was serene, quiet and many times when I was fractious, he could just talk to me and I'd be fine. He had black hair, like a raven's I suppose. I don't know if I resemble him much. My mother used to tell me that I did. 

That Christmas day he looked at me and I saw what I could only remember now, as tears in his eyes. I thought he was happy because it was Christmas and he had just given me my present. My mother had a look about her that well… she smiled little enough, but that day she was tight-lipped. Angry? How could I know that? How could I know that my father was about to leave the little girl he loved most in the universe? 

Then he left me. 

There was a vague promise of coming back. Maybe he just said it so that I could be appeased, Tom. But I believed him. Oh, how I believed him! 

And then I waited for him. 

I waited.

He never came. 

He said he would. That was the promise he made.

And so, on quiet balmy nights on Kessick IV when the moon was out and I could see a thousand stars, I tried to keep awake as long as I could because my father said he'd come. I would run to the bathroom and dunk my head in ice cold water just so I could keep awake longer. Then I would sit at my window looking at the stars and trace the outline of a planet on my window pane. I imagined he'd be there on that world and I'd try to work out the distance between that planet and Kessick IV and determine the time it would take him to arrive. I imagined he'd be in a Federation shuttle that was painted white, with the name "Little Bee" on it. 

I kept all my school report cards not for some sentimental reason, but because I needed to show him how well I'd done in school. I never liked drawings, you know that, but in those early years, I drew little pictures of our family. There were always the three of us. Me, my mom and dad. Eventually, I didn't draw anymore. My father taught me mathematics at a time when most people today think it too early to teach anyone its principles. I was good, Tom. Really good. I was able to dismantle a scientific tricorder. Of course, Daddy had to come and assemble the instrument again. I pestered him about a thousand different things when he was there, and that I knew I'd do again just as soon as he came to fetch me and take me to visit my human grandma like he used to. 

Many times I would sit in my class, and I would dream of my father coming to fetch me. I'd imagine sticking my tongue out at the other children and brag because he came. I'd dream of a shadow appearing in the doorway of the classroom and when the figure entered, it would be my father. How I would cry out: "Daddy!"

Once, he came to visit. It was about a year after he left. I was crazy with happiness. For one whole day I couldn't be kept quiet. I was breathless and awed that he was there. The same Daddy with his golden voice and raven hair. I missed the sadness in his eyes because I didn't think to look for it. I couldn't stand still that day! I showed him my first report card with so much pride! 

"Little Bee," he said, "as reward for your excellent results, I shall make you your favorite banana pancakes" He had a wonderful smile on his face. So wonderful…wonderful. I couldn't stop looking at him. 

Have you ever seen a head nodding vigorously that you'd think it would fall off one's head? Mine did that day. 

Only once after that my father visited again.

I wanted to know from him: "Daddy, when are you going to stay here with us for always?"

He made no more promises then.

I was distraught, and for weeks after he left I became uncontrollable in my rage. 

Tom, I wish I could say that I hated my father. I wish desperately that I could say that. It would give me a reason, something, anything! that I could cling to that vindicated my feeling like that. 

I had too many hopes, too many dreams and my hopes and dreams were wrapped up in the knowledge that one day my daddy would come home.

He never came. 

Today, I understand many things, even why he never could give his only daughter the time and attention she deserved.

I deserved my father, Tom. I didn't divorce him. I didn't stop loving him. I didn't tell him he was wrong, or that he was a jerk of a man. He is still the kindest man who breathed, I'm sure of that. 

But I cried many tears over many, many years, dearest Tom. Most of the time I was angry and if I could regret only one thing from those angry outbursts as a child growing up and the outrage I suffered because my daddy didn't come again when he promised he would, it is that it destroyed my teen years and my relationship with my mother. It was hard, a cathartic experience to rebuild my relationship with my mother, just as you've had to do with your father when we returned to the Alpha Quadrant. 

I was most of the time a sullen, unhappy, angry child, Tom, because the one person I dreamed would be in my life always, wasn't there. I built my dreams on nothing, and in the end I was rewarded with nothing.

It is possible to trace my father, but I prefer sometimes to stare out the window like I used to as a child and dream of him. I'd look at the stars and wonder where he was at that moment. His face has faded in my memory. I don't look at pictures of him so much and when I do, I hardly remember the face, except that I resemble him a bit. Then I wonder if he still thinks of me. 

Tom, somewhere on a farm in Indiana is a little girl waiting for you. Right now she is probably pestering her mother when you'll come. Perhaps right at this moment she is wishing on a star, and I bet that she's not wishing for fancy gifts, but that her Daddy be with her. 

She is a beautiful child, Tom. A wonderful little girl who deserves having you around her all the time, and not just as a sometimes present parent who has to leave in an hour again. It was not fair to me when I was little and it's not fair to your daughter. 

I know of broken hearts and tattered dreams and futile wishes, Tom.

I don't want Noëlle to wait for you and all her waiting is in vain. 

I don't want Noëlle staring out her window looking at the stars, and wondering when her daddy will come for a visit. 

I don't want Noëlle saving her school report cards for you and you're never there to congratulate her on her achievements. Talking on vid-coms doesn't begin to replace the thrill of holding her up in your arms and nuzzling your stubby chin in her neck. It doesn't half make up to see her eyes light up before you and hear her excited cries.

It doesn't come close to watching her mother nod in approval because Noëlle would rather have you tell her stories and tuck her in. 

I don't want Noëlle to resent her father because he was never there when she needed him most in her life. 

Tom, I take with me the good memories of the times we shared. I cannot deny a little girl her happiness, and I can no longer deny you yours. My life was filled and I can thank Kahless that you were in my life at a time when I needed to believe in myself again. That you could no longer love me, is not your fault. It's not mine either, I believe. The fates decreed that Kathryn was to be yours for life and you were prepared to remain my husband in spite of your love for her. 

You have been a wonderful husband, Tom. Caring, understanding, hopelessly silly at times, making me laugh at your jokes. As my husband you gave me all you were capable of giving. 

But, Tom, I know how difficult it has been for you. You didn't want to hurt me and that is the most decent thing you have ever done. I cannot fault you, Tom. I wish I could! I wish I could give you the normal reasons people divorce. 

I'm am leaving you because I love you. 

Doesn't that sound like such a contradiction? 

If I had to project into a future twenty years from now, I'd see four unhappy people. 

I cannot bear anymore to see you unhappy, for believe it or not, I sensed most of the time that your heart was not with me. I want to see you happy again, Tom, and you can only be that within the right family fold: Kathryn and your little Noëlle who was born on Christmas day.

You will probably have found the large gift I left at the bottom in my wardrobe. It's Noëlle's Christmas gift from me. Tell her it's from a woman who is a great friend of yours. Tell her I had many hours of enjoyment with just such a toy which my own father had given me when I was four years old. Tell her she's a wonderful little girl who is very, very lucky to have you as her father.

Tell her I'd like to meet her one day.

Please, Tom, I don't want you to be a bit worried about me. I will be on Vulcan with Tuvok and his wife. I've accepted a teaching post at the Science Academy there. Tuvok is positive that I will benefit from my meditation and he says: "On Vulcan you will still the storms in you."

I hope to do that, Tom. 

I built my life around dreams. Most of them never materialized for me. My greatest dream was that you could love me the way I love you: with my whole heart. I don't want you to feel bad about that. In many ways dreams are shattered and they leave the dreamer disillusioned, angry, resentful.

The dreams I had lie in pieces at my feet, but I will not despair, Tom. 

I can collect some of those splinters and piece them together again and dream anew. It is in our nature, undeniable: the element of hope that always accompanies those dreams. I believe that I too can one day be happy. I want that for me, Tom. Very badly. I believe now that of all the happiness the world does have to offer, I will be the deserving recipient of a portion of it. One day. 

I will take the pieces of my dreams and I swear to God, Tom, by all that is worthy of being fought for in this universe, I will be whole again.

One day, I will be whole again.

You can bet on that. 

May the peace of this season, its goodwill and the kindness of the angels be upon you, Kathryn and Noëlle.

All my love,

B'Elanna Torres.

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END

Third story in the trilogy: **"The years between". (P/T)**


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